Eleison
by The Golden Hierophant
Summary: The best manipulator had been bested by the shy mouse that was his Ovelia. "Delita," she murmured, clinging to the dagger, "We're at an end of things."


Eleison

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Disclaimer: I am making no profit whatsoever from this story.

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_Have Mercy._

_You've my faith and my love.  
_

_Make me a vehicle of your will, wise deity._

_You've my utmost obedience.  
_

_Farlem.  
_

"Holy Ajora, have mercy upon us all," ash and the aroma of heavy incense pervaded the air in the royal chapel. Queen Ovelia sat in attendance with Delita, ruler by marriage only, at her side half listening to the priest's words; he'd gripped her hand tightly ever since he'd ascended to the throne. She'd never found it within herself to take back ownership of her hand until now. He'd always doubted her strength. The Queen pulled her hand from his, and he reached out for it. Delita looked down at her, wearing a bemused expression.

No, Ovelia shook her head. She'd no longer play the role of the puppet, the silent beautiful mannequin dressed in frills and lace with fine silken curls fit only to be seen never heard. Her voice had awoken, and Delita had only himself to thank for that. He'd taught her how to use others, treat her subjects as if they were less than human, how to be every bit as ruthless as he.

During the evening, she rode to her church. She dismounted and traced a familiar path with her hand against the ruined stone walls to the remains of the altar. Ivalice had lived in innocence for a time, and those times would come again but not under _his _reign. She heard the soft footfalls of his shoes behind her.

"My love," He called to her. The Queen remained silent. His soft spoken words only ridiculed her, "We've been searching for you. It is the day of your birth, nay?" Had it been? She'd forgotten. The occasion meant nothing to her; it only reminded her that her entire life had been a carefully crafted lie, "I've brought you a token of our love, my Queen, roses."

"Am I _your Queen_, your majesty?" Ovelia murmured casting her eyes towards the worn altar. _Have mercy. _The phrase echoed through her mind like a forgotten childhood lullaby, and she latched onto it. She could hear the King walking towards her. She'd have mercy on her kingdom; Ovelia would save them from the next tyrant. He could not survive if this fledgling age of peace were to flourish.

"Farlem," Ovelia whispered; she turned, pulling a dagger from the folds of her skirts. He stopped. Actual surprise welled up in his eyes; the best manipulator bested by the shy mouse that had been his Ovelia, and then the Queen was upon him. She plunged the dagger in a weak spot on his armor with such force that she thought her own wrist would break. She hadn't been breed for battle, but she'd prove her worth this day. Hot blood pumped from the wound; she drove the blade further in and twisted.

He didn't speak only reacted, exactly as she'd anticipated. The King drew a dagger of his own and plunged it into her gut. Ovelia crumpled like a wilted lily; her head lay upon his fallen roses. Her vision blurred; the power of his blow had knocked her senseless. She could hear him faintly stagger away.

"Ramza," He choked out faintly and leaned against one of the church's still standing pillars, clutching his wound. Ovelia pulled herself to her knees. He'd played into her hand. She pulled his dagger from the ruined chain mail beneath the tear in her gown; the wound he'd left her was only shallow. She'd live. The Queen stood to her feet and walked gingerly to stand at Delita's back.

"My husband," she whispered, holding the cold steel of Delita's dagger against his throat.

"Ovelia," He breathed. She could faintly see his eyes reflecting in the blade; they pleaded with her silently.

"The old Ivalice cannot be allowed to continue. You are not the kingdom's savior or hero. I've arranged it so that Olan will be freed from your sentence and rule in my stead. My name will fade into the pages of history, but this deed, this one act of mercy for a kingdom I have failed so many times will live on forever, Delita," with one swift movement, an age ended in the history of Ivalice. She let the dagger clang to the floor. He had been no better than Larg, Goltana, or Dycedarg in the end of it all. She mounted the bird, pawing at the ground softly, and looked back only once, and then she plunged off into the sunset leaving the church and Zeltennia behind her.

Ovelia rode far and wide, over hills and gullies until her steed had found its way to that cemetery once more. She rode past the headstones and stopped. They were here just as Olan had said.

"Ramza, Alma," Her breath hitched in her throat. Ramza turned to speak. He was not the boy she'd remembered but rode upon his steed as a man whose eyes spoke volumes.

"Your Majesty," he began.

"No, it's simply Ovelia, now," she replied, "You're riding to the North, I presume."

"Yes," it was Alma whom answered now.

"I will journey with you," Ovelia replied.

Ramza and Alma nodded, and Ovelia followed. Ivalice stood at her back, but the weight, all of the old guilt she'd borne had been lifted. The wind blew through her hair bringing new exotic scents, and for the first time in her entire life, Ovelia had felt free.


End file.
